Alstroemerias, etc
by leakywitch
Summary: Harry's life is about as normal as it's ever going to be. Saying that, he lives alone in a weird flat, with strange Muggle neighbours, and rides a broken elevator with Draco Malfoy every day. Oh, and somebody is sending him flowers.
1. Chapter 1

Harry knew that once the news got out, the papers would relay the whole story blow-for-blow, filling far more pages than could possibly be necessary. Anonymous "close friends" will be quoted giving revealing information. Whole events that never took place will emerge into being by the whim of the Prophet's editor. Maybe there'll even be a doctored photo or two if someone is feeling creative.

But Harry won't be able to blame them for their excitement this time, for it is, of course, an excellent tale.

They knew each other for years before anything happened. They were on opposing sides of two Quidditch teams who famously rivalled one another - one a beater and one a chaser, both captains - and had a jolly good go at trying to murder one another during every game the two teams played.

The teams' Quidditch grounds are on the opposite side of the same city - Liverpool - which notoriously has the greatest density of pubs of any magical city in the UK. Fans pour in to celebrate after every win, and console themselves after every loss; the bartenders have long been experts in breaking up any Quidditch-related brawls (which happen as much between the players as it does the fans). In fact, a couple of years into their consecutive captaining, the two captains got into a drunk fight so bad it made headline news for a week, after which the President of the National Quidditch Association threatened to ban them both from playing if they didn't get their act together. But this has been the state of Liverpool Quidditch for hundreds of years.

Now, as one may expect, Quidditch players have a habit of ending up together - a decent reward can always be made tipping off the Daily Prophet about who's sleeping with who. But in Liverpool, the rivalry runs so deep that there had been no known union between two Quidditch players from opposite ends of the city for more than 300 years. Sure, there had been illicit encounters, and hush-hush affairs, and probably even a lovechild or two - but nothing that involved anyone putting a ring on it. That was until Lacy and Rowan.

She was Liverpool-born Seeker who flew at the speed of a spell and owned hair as red as Ginny Weasley's; he an Irish Keeper who came from a line of Quidditch players and could fly before he could walk. Unbeknownst to them, their Uncles went to Hogwarts together, and (this they did know) love a good practical joke. A long story cut short: a blind date was set up, both players were too proud and stubborn to walk away from it until it was over, and far too much attraction was generated in that one night. There were on-off attempts to not be together for the sake of team tradition, but after revelations and team-mate blessings, the two gave up pretending they weren't meant to be together, and got married. Which meant the two teams had to - at least some of the time - do something they had never prepared for: get along.

Some players, when forced to, got on famously with the opposition. Others… well, let's just say the engagement party ended in some bruises and a broken foot.

The captains, in many ways, found it hardest. They had to control everyone, both from fighting one another but also from getting too friendly; they had to preserve competitive team spirit, but also be amiable with the opposite team; and they had to hide from the bride and groom not only that they still hated one another's guts to the northern edge of Scotland and back, but also as Harry later found out, the mounting sexual tension between them which they were trying to supress.

Lacy and Rowan were one thing. They were a pair of sweet young things who couldn't help but fall in love with each other. The captains were another. One was Bryan Kavanagh, descendent of former Minister for Magic Evangeline Orpington and long-term partner of Rose Appleby, a musical sensation and the wizarding world's current sweetheart; the other was Ginny Weasley, notorious for many things, one of those things being breaking Bryan Kavanagh's foot, another being her status as Harry Potter's girlfriend.

It had not been extraordinary, Harry and Ginny's relationship: it was best described as functional and pleasant, which everyone except Fleur Delacour thought was just fine. Fleur had been raised in the French manner, and thought that passion must be incited no matter how old the relationship, and so found the British habit of ignoring dissatisfaction until it either disappeared or became a really big issue really quite obnoxious. Ginny, who had never warmed to Fleur, once told Harry that if 'that phlegm' thought something was wrong with their relationship, then it was certainly fine.

Harry laughs to himself often about that. Their breakup had, ultimately, been much easier than anyone would have expected. Ginny had come in, solemn faced, sat down on the sofa, and burst into tears. Everything came blurting out. The accidental semi-angry flirting, undecipherable glances, Kavanagh breaking up with his girlfriend and nobody knowing why, sudden sweetness towards Ginny that she reacted badly to, a drunk argument, a kiss… a kiss. She looked Harry in the eyes in that moment. Sometimes one kiss says everything, she said. He took her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She had stood beside him through everything, Ginny. He loved her so much, and right in that second, when his heart was supposed to be breaking, it was filling with joy. She deserved it all. The love, the passion, the fire. Everything Harry was supposed to be giving her, but in the end just wasn't destined to.

Now Ginny and Bryan were engaged. They had, of course, come over and told Harry the day after the proposal. Ginny had looked so happy, so radiant. The afternoon was melting in the evening, and Harry's small flat had been filled with a lovely light that made everything look slow and unrushed. Outside in the late spring everything bloomed pink and white and bright green against the greyness of the Muggle apartment blocks of outer London. Harry grins like an idiot when he thinks about it. He could not think of a single thing wrong in the world on that lovely, mellow Sunday morning.

There is, of course, a downside to all of this. Harry is still single, and the Daily Prophet has convinced half of its readers that Ginny has left him irreparably broken hearted. There are witches throwing themselves at Harry left and right, telling him they can save him from the throes of depression, or whatever else they think he's in.

And only a week after the proposal, he receives a firecall to say Skeeter has somehow got wind of it, and it'll all be front page news tomorrow. Basically a heads up for Harry to brace himself - last time Skeeter got a story this juicy he had to make a public statement that no, he wasn't out of work to deal with 'personal matters' and no, he wasn't in rehab for a Ginny Weasley-related breakdown and/or alcohol problem. It's Rita Skeeter that needs to be sent to rehab, Harry thinks, for her compulsive lying problem.

* * *

The next morning Harry gets dressed slowly. He knows at the back of his mind he shouldn't be wasting his time, but going to work is a plaster he can't bring himself to just rip off quickly. There are always those looks after a major story comes out.

Outside, it rains half-heartedly as Harry sits at his tiny table in his tiny kitchen and has breakfast. He lives in an apartment which he fell in love with because it was the exact opposite to where most people thought he should be living: it's a crumbling Muggle flat complex on the edge of London, made mostly of concrete and inhabited by people who looked like they had lived there since the dawn of time. The place was built by someone who had no idea what they were doing, as evidenced by the fact that Harry lives on a 'floor' that only has two flats and is sandwiched between what are technically floors two and three.

Harry's nearest neighbour is an ancient one-eyed woman whose entire wardrobe seemed to be modelled on curtains of Merlin knows only what era, and who, on her regular morning walks around the block, yells "the magpies are coming! The magpies are coming!" at random passers-by. Her only communication with Harry is to take a swipe at him with her walking stick if he gets in her way in the corridor - and she swings with unusual force for somebody who looks at least a hundred and two.

Harry doesn't like leaving the solace of his home on days like this. It's so ordinary and comfortable and hidden from the world: if you step into Harry's flat, you come into a snug little living room with bright yellow wallpaper and a striped red sofa. (It shouldn't surprise you that both are older than Harry.) There's a wooden coffee table in front of sofa, and a TV set. A couple of photos and shelving units stuffed with memorabilia hang on the wall. A bookcase lives in the corner, with the spines of all the magical books turned towards the wall. Most of the books are Hermione's. Standing against the right wall, near the kitchen door, there's a boring-looking little cabinet stashed with magical bits and bobs: some bozarbar and such for magical emergencies, but mainly fire whiskey and Weasley Wizarding Wheezes products. Next door the kitchen contains about enough space for two plates, a kettle and a frying pan, which suits Harry just fine. The bedroom has enough room for a double bed and a wardrobe, but the wardrobe doesn't have any doors because there wouldn't be enough room to open them. And because nobody but Harry ever goes into this room, the walls are covered in notes about the current Auror cases Harry is working on, which he rereads when he can't sleep. There's also a bathroom, which impressively somehow manages to be smaller than the cupboard under the stairs Harry used to sleep in.

Harry procrastinates leaving until he's running late, and has to run to the spot where he apparates to the Ministry. He could apparate or floo straight from his flat much quicker, but these things are recorded and he'd really rather nosey ministry employees not have his address - it would only be a matter of time before it got out.

From where he apparates into the ministry, he runs towards the lift. If he misses it, he'll probably be late by at least ten minutes. And the boss doesn't forgive anyone for being late, not even Harry (which was part of the reason Harry loves both his job and his boss so). As he turns onto the last long corridor, he can see the lift doors opening on the other end of it. Malfoy, already there as usual, gives Harry a look that challenges him to guess whether he'll hold the doors today or not.

Harry sprints the length, runs into the lift and collapses into his corner, pressing the buttons for his floor and Malfoy's. The doors close.

"Malfoy," he says, when he can just about breathe.

"Potter," Malfoy replies.

The usual greeting.

"Thank you for not making me late," says Harry.

Malfoy says nothing.

On more than one occasion, Malfoy has made Harry late by not holding the elevator. There have not been any such incidents recently, either because Harry has tried to make civil with Malfoy over the years, or - and Harry dreads this one - Malfoy actually feels sorry for him.

Harry shutters. If there's any more pity, he will leave England.

The elevator hums and clicks as it travels. Most of the elevators at the Ministry are a smooth ride. Quick. Efficient. This one is a nightmare. It usually takes several minutes, as opposed to several seconds as it should, jolts a lot, sometimes gets stuck, and often stops at the wrong floor.

He glances at Malfoy. Malfoy has tucked his newspaper under his arm and is messing with his wedding ring. Harry looks away. He doesn't want to think about wedding rings right now.

They take this elevator because everybody else avoids it, and Harry and Malfoy want to avoid everybody else. Malfoy started using it when Harry was on holiday, having no idea Harry had used it for years. When Harry returned, slightly more tanned and slightly less haggard looking… well. The first two days they ignored one another, as if nothing unusual was happening and the situation would eventually solve itself. On the third day, Harry resolved to talk to him.

Harry had rehearsed what he was going to say the night before, but the next morning a third person decided to join them. It was a girl whose name Harry didn't know, but recognised by sight from the times she'd tried to catch his eye in the cafeteria over the years. She had long, dark, curly locks which framed a perfectly formed face, and Harry harboured no interest or attraction towards her even though he felt that he somehow should. Her presence annoyed him not just because his rehearsal went out of the window, but because he knew why she was there, and Harry would really rather she forget the idea of it. Right on cue, about five seconds after they all got into the lift - the girl shooting dark glances at Malfoy - she turned and smiled at Harry.

"Do you take this lift often?" she said, even though Harry knew she knew he took it every damn day, "My name is Rosanna - the normal lifts are so crowded, don't you think? I'm trying to find nicer ways to get to my office. I think this is rather nice, wouldn't you agree?"

"Er, maybe," said Harry. His eyes darted to Malfoy, whose whole face was tense: Harry could see he was gritting his teeth very hard. He wasn't sure if he was doing this because the girl made him uncomfortable, or if he was trying very hard not to laugh. Harry suspected the latter.

The girl also glanced at Malfoy. "Although," she said darkly, "there are some ways in which it could definitely be nicer."

Malfoy turned to them and grinned in the viscous way he always did when he was about to be unpleasant.

"It's very hot in here, isn't it?" he said. He took his jacket off. The girl straightened her back and stopped smiling. Malfoy went on: "I'm warm even in this shirt."

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up one sleeve, slowly, deliberately. Then he rolled up the second, making sure to make a show of revealing the Dark Mark. The girl pressed herself into the corner furthest away from Malfoy, her expression nasty. The elevator pinged. The doors opened at a random floor, as it did on its detours, but this didn't matter to the girl. She ran out.

"Thanks," said Harry after the doors closed.

"That's probably going to get me fired," said Malfoy, rolling his sleeves back down and doing up his cuffs, "what do you want, Potter? I assume it's me you're after, I don't know why else you'd be riding this Merlin-cursed lift."

"I've been using this lift for years," said Harry.

Malfoy stopped in the middle of buttoning up a cuff and screwed his face up at Potter.

"Yeah, really," said Harry. "I was on holiday the last two weeks."

Malfoy sighed and put on his jacket.

"I started two weeks ago. I'll find a different route up tomorrow morning."

In the spur of the moment, Harry held out is hand. "Let's be civil about this. We can share an elevator without hexing one another."

Malfoy looked down at Harry's waiting hand and pursed his lips.

"You're being ever so Gryffindor about this," he said. It was clearly not implied as a compliment.

Harry keeps his hand outstretched. "Fine. In that case, think of it like this: you get to avoid the normal elevators, and I get to avoid any more incidents like her. That Slytherin enough for you, Malfoy?"

Malfoy snorted. "Whatever," he said. When Harry didn't lower his hand, Malfoy rolled his eyes, and shook it.

They stood in silence for a few more seconds until the elevator hit Malfoy's floor.

"What do you do now, anyway?" said Harry.

The doors opened. Malfoy stepped out.

"Office for Confiscation of Dark Arts Materials," said Malfoy.

"No kidding."

"Apparently I know a thing or two about that," said Malfoy with a humourless expression. He turned around and walked away. The elevator doors closed.

The elevator pings, bringing Harry back to the present moment. The doors open. Malfoy stays in his corner. Harry looks at him.

"It's decided to stop at your floor first today," says Malfoy. "Concentrate, Potter."

"Fuck."

* * *

Harrys spends the rest of the day avoiding any human being who isn't utterly convinced he's actually thrilled with Ginny getting married. Ron and Hermione come to his office to have lunch - the cafeteria isn't fun for any of them at times like these. Ginny has asked Hermione to be her maid of honour, and Hermione, quite beside herself, spends most of lunch relating to them the entire history of wedding traditions, or so it seems.

In the afternoon Harry throws himself into his work and becomes so absorbed he forgets until the last minute that Luna is coming around in the evening. He rushes home to find Luna waiting outside of his flat, holding a rather large tall black box.

"Sorry, have you been waiting long?" he says, as he lets her in and, at the sight of the messy living room, berates himself for not cleaning up that morning.

"No, not at all," she says, putting down the box, "this is for you."

"What is it?" he says.

Luna shrugs. "I don't know, it was there when I got here, but it was on its side. It has your name on it."

Harry looks at a suspiciously walking-stick shaped indent on the side of the box. The crazy old woman across the hall, no doubt.

He hangs his and Luna's coats up, puts on the kettle and then returns to examine the box a bit closer. On the top of it there's a small note with H. POTTER inscribed neatly on it, but nothing to indicate where it came from. He opens the box and stands back, rather confused.

Inside, there is a bouquet of flowers in an intricately-made blue glass vase. He carefully pulls it out and places it on the coffee table.

"Gladioli," Luna says, delighted.

Ten large stems burst out of the vase, each stem tall and green, with about eight soft white flowers each, bunched up the stem two by two. Harry stares at them. He cannot think of a single person they could be from - the list of friends who have his address is quite short, and the most likely candidate is Neville, who is firstly somewhere in New Zealand at that moment, and secondly will probably never trust Harry with plants again after one unfortunate event.

"They're lovely," says Luna when Harry remains rooted and silent on his spot, "shall I make some tea?"

Harry nods. Something about this mystery has grabbed him. These flowers - Gladioli, Luna said - are as bizarre a gift as they are a beautiful one. Somehow, he knows they have something to do with Ginny's engagement, but nothing else about them makes sense. He cannot help but feel those white blooms hold a message he cannot yet decipher, a significance he cannot yet understand.


	2. Chapter 2

Ever since Luna's father died, Harry tries to see her as often as possible. She runs the Quibbler now, and a modestly successful business which consists of growing and selling unusual herbs. Despite this, she seems to spend an awful lot of time alone, and everyone seems too busy to see her that often. It used to be Neville who saw her the most, but he's in New Zealand, so now it's Harry, and Ginny when she can.

Harry knows Luna is lonely. She wasn't before - before _him_ … Even after her father died, she seemed content with her herbs and magazine and regular visits from friends. Then Rolf Scamander, the magizoologist and grandson of _that_ magizoologist, moved to London from the Americas.

"I heard Rolf is thinking of going back to America," says Luna on the night of the Gladioli, quickly adding, "Not that we're friends or I have any reason to care."

A few days later a bunch of lilies arrive on Harry's doorstop. Pink, fragrant, in full bloom - of course, they make him think of his mother. He digs out the old photo album Hagrid gave him at the end of his first year and looks at those few precious photos of his parents. For some reason, he can't help thinking of Luna. It seems like only yesterday he was that little orphan, and now everybody around him is the same age as his parents were when they married, had him. Died.

Harry was in conversation with Luna the moment she first saw Rolf. It was at some Ministry event - Harry can't even remember what it was now - and Luna, true to form, was dressed in some exquisitely odd rainbow-coloured dress, with jewellery of knitted vegetables she'd made herself. Rolf was laughing loudly not far from them, so loudly they looked to see what the commotion was about: Harry will never forget how her eyes widened, breath seized, chest tinged pink. She forgot Harry entirely and let her mouth fall open as she stared. Later, somebody introduced Rolf to Harry (and given that Luna was standing right next to him, to Luna too). It was one of the few times in Harry's life that he had seen Luna lose her serene aura. She shuffled her feet a lot, and when Rolf looked her directly in the eyes and told her how sorry he was to have heard about the passing of her father, and how interesting a man he had found him when they had met when Rolf was younger, she nodded, excused herself and ran off to the girls toilet. Usually Luna happily talked about her father, even in those early days.

Harry thinks anyone would be lucky to have Luna. But…

It isn't just that Rolf is a minor celebrity, or has all the charm and social graces that Luna somewhat lacks. Or even that he also has a face most would envy, with flawless dark skin and a head full of thick curls. It's that he comes off perfectly normal and well-presented.

And perfectly normal people aren't exactly the kind to fall head over heels with Luna.

There she was that night at the Ministry, poor Loony Lovegood, recently orphaned and now besotted with the most unattainable of men. There's a unique empathy Harry has with her, the heartache of not having, but wanting so bad. That heartache he associates with the mirror of erised.

Harry places the lilies on the windowsill in his bedroom, near the mirror a colleague got him last Christmas with a hint that he should use it reflect on the state of his hair.

* * *

There's a moth in Harry's flat again. It's evening, and Harry's forgot to spell the windows to repel bugs before he turned on the lights. He can hear it flitting around in the next room. He's attempting to cook a half-decent stir fry today (Molly Weasley has basically been keeping him alive since Hogwarts because Harry can't cook anything more complex than bacon and eggs). He takes out his wand and flicks it at the empty glass jar on the window sill. The jar whooshes out into the living room.

Harry pokes at the chicken in the pan with his wooden spoon. He doesn't want to overcook it, but he doesn't want food poisoning again, either. There's an awful lot of clanging in the next room. It almost sounds like the jar is up against a fight… how hard can it be for a flying jar to catch a moth?

Harry puts down his spoon and turns down the heat under the pan to low.

In the living room, it turns out the jar _is_ actually up against a fight. Against some kind of purple-skinned elf or pixie, although Harry's never seen one like it before. He stuns it and puts the lid on the bottle before examining it closer. It's only about an inch tall, with an angry little face. But what is it doing here, in Muggle territory?

Thanks to Hermione and Neville, Harry has a grand total of three books with identification for magical creatures on his bookshelf. He takes the most comprehensive of the three (why Hermione thought he'd ever need this, Harry doesn't know, but he's glad just now) and flicks through the elfs, sprites and pixies section. Common, Cornish blue, Spanish, Green-tongued… None of them match. He checks the other two books. Nothing. He looks at the strange little thing in the jar again - it's angrily slamming against the glass, hissing at him. Then Harry looks out of the window, to the apple tree in the courtyard, with its growth of multiple mistletoe bushes.

Mistletoe. Harry thinks he must be crazy to even think of it, but he digs out the old and never-opened book the Lovegoods gave him years ago, buried in dust on the bottom self of his bookcase.

He flips through the alphabet of 'overlooked' magical oddities - most of which Harry is sure don't exist. When he gets to N - _Nargle_ he stops, and there's a viscous little face staring out at him from the page, just like the one in the jar.

Harry can't believe it. He stares at the book, then at the creature in the jar, then back at the book. It's a nargle. An actual real-life nargle. The Lovegoods were right after all.

Without a second thought Harry puts on his coat and apparates to Luna's.

The sun is setting over the Lovegood dwelling when he gets there, making the garden of strange herbs, flowers and vegetables which wraps around the house look almost pretty. He's about to run up to the door and knock, but he hears Luna's voice somewhere from around the back, outside. He wonders if she's heard him or if she's just talking to herself again. He walks around, feeling a little sick when he passes Luna's green beetroots.

He spots Luna - she looks bright, happier than Harry has seen her in a long time, in muddy overalls, stood amongst her cyan-blue tomatoes.

"Harry!" she says.

Next to her feet, somewhere in the tomatoes where Harry can't quite see them, someone is shuffling around.

"Sorry," says Harry, "am I disturbing something?"

"No!" says Luna, "we were just planting a few herbs. Come see."

Harry walks over and strains over the bushes to see who Luna's companion is. Draco Malfoy is on his knees - very muddy but still very well dressed - he looks up at Harry with challenging grey eyes, daring Harry to say something.

"Malfoy," Harry says, attempting everyday nonchalance, but he doesn't quite manage it and Harry's surprise still rings in his voice. He cusses himself.

"Potter," Malfoy replies, and goes back to digging as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Harry damns Malfoy for being so much better at nonchalance.

"We're planting Basil and Threxa," says Luna. She's smiling so innocently at Harry, Harry wonders for a moment if she actually realises how weird this situation is.

"Sorry for dropping in like this," says Harry, "but I think I might need your help. With… with Nargles."

Malfoy looks up at Harry again and makes a face which Harry is sure is a nonverbal question of how hard he hit his head. Luna looks predictably serene and unsurprised.

"Have they been taking your stuff?" she says.

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know. I don't keep track of my stuff very well."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Malfoy roll his.

"I caught one," Harry goes on. "I didn't know what it was at first - I thought it was a pixie or something - I identified it from that book you gave me. It said they usually come in groups, so…"

"What did you do with it?" asks Luna.

"Er - well I just left it in the jar."

Luna looks alarmed. "How long?"

"Maybe half an hour? Is that bad?"

Luna throws herself into motion, and heads towards the back door. "We have to go back to your house now or there'll be an _infestation -_ "

Harry doesn't like the sound of that. Come to think of it, the nargle was getting more and more agitated as time went by...

"What do you mean by infestation?" says Malfoy, who's gotten up and is now spelling mud off himself.

"If a nargle is trapped, sometimes it will send out a cry for help, and all available members of its colony will come to the rescue," says Luna as they walk, "One nargle is pretty difficult to deal with, even a powerful witch or wizard would be outnumbered by dozens."

They walk into the house and then into the kitchen - Luna opens a cupboard and pulls out a big box of something.

"Peanut butter chocolate fudge," she says. "The only way to calm a nargle."

Luna gives the box to Harry, and he looks at it with not insignificant scepticism. But he realises that only half an hour ago he didn't even think nargles existed, and keeps his mouth shut.

Luna makes her way to the other side of the kitchen and pulls out a large bag of what look like butterbeer corks, which she thrusts at Malfoy. He looks amused.

"We just need one more thing," Luna says.

When they get to Harry's flat - all three of them, which Harry can tell both he and Malfoy feel very weird about, although neither of them have been given a choice - the nargle is gone. The glass jar is smashed on the floor, as are a few of Harry's other belongings. The curtains are also a bit ripped, and there's a sizable hole in Harry's window, but nothing else seems damaged.

"This is where you live?" says Malfoy, looking at these surroundings. Harry tries not to frown. Malfoy adds, "I can't say I'm surprised in any way."

"How long has that mistletoe been out there?" says Luna, having spotted it immediately.

"Er," says Harry, "I honestly don't know. A few years maybe?"

Luna takes the bag of butterbeer corks off Malfoy and gives him the lidded bucket she's brought.

"I'm going to go deal with the mistletoe," she says, "check there are no more nargles in here. If there are, throw the fudge at them."

"What about this bucket?" asks Malfoy.

"Oh," Luna says, "just scatter the leaves all over the apartment floor, and in the corridor too."

She skips out of the room as Malfoy takes the lid off the bucket. Harry doesn't know what the stuff is, and by the looks of it Malfoy doesn't either. The leaves look like tiny little red petals, but definitely don't smell as good. More like something is rotting. Harry isn't sure if he really wants this all over his floor.

"Potter," says Malfoy, wrinkling his nose, "is that the smell of the leaves or is something burning?"

"Oh crap," says Harry, "my stir-fry!"

It is, of course, totally burned, even on the low heat. He throws it in the bin and shrugs at Malfoy, who's come into the kitchen to witness this spectacle of Harry failing at adulthood.

"We better get on with the… leaves," says Harry.

Harry does the bathroom and bedroom while Malfoy does the kitchen, because aside from both those rooms really needing a clean, nobody - especially not Malfoy - should see the bedroom wall full of Auror notes.

They quickly get through Harry's living room, and then move to the corridor.

"I'm worried my neighbour will slip on these," says Harry as they scatter the weird-smelling red leaves, "she's really old."

"We'll cast an anti-trip spell after we've finished," says Malfoy, "but please tell me we only have to do this one corridor rather than all the corridors in the building."

As if she has been summoned, Harry's neighbour appears from the stairwell and starts down the hallway. Harry, almost automatically, moves to flatten himself against the wall so she doesn't hit him with that damn stick. Malfoy doesn't move an inch. In fact, after a moment Harry realises he's staring at the old woman.

"Aunt _Myrtle?_ " Malfoy says.

 _"What?"_ says Harry.

"Eh?" squints the old woman, slowing down to inspect the two of them and their bucket.

Harry's eyes dart between his neighbour and Malfoy.

"It's me - it's Draco," says Malfoy.

"Who? Did the Magpies send you?"

"No…" says Malfoy, pointing at his white blonde hair, which Harry suddenly realises his neighbour has too, "Draco Malfoy, Lucius' son."

She furrowed her nose up.

"Lucius, your nephew?" Malfoy adds.

"Yes, I know who he is," she says after a moment. "I didn't know he had any spawn."

"We met at -"

"Ehhhhhhh," she waves her arm to show she doesn't care or want to hear anymore. She gets her key out and puts it in the keyhole.

"Don't tell the Magpies I was here."

She hobbles inside and slams the door behind her.

"You _know_ her?" says Harry, coming away from the wall, "you're _related_ to her?"

"Yes," said Draco, seemingly as shocked as Harry by this turn of events, "she knocked me unconscious with that stick when I was nine."

"I don't understand," says Harry. "Is she a squib? Who are the Magpies?"

"No, she's a witch. Malfoys don't produce squibs."

Harry narrows his eyes, barely holding off rolling them. "She's a Malfoy? Then what is she doing here?"

Draco shrugs, "hiding from Magpies, I assume."

"Magpies?"

"They're a kind of bird."

"Yes," says Harry through gritted teeth, "but why is she hiding from them?"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Because she's _mad,_ Potter."

They say nothing else while they finish scattering the leaves and Malfoy casts the anti-trip spell. Back in the flat, they can see that Luna has climbed the mistletoe-laden tree outside and is messing around with the butterbeer corks and some string. Seeing nothing else to do, Harry puts on the kettle.

"How do you like your coffee?" he says.

"Do you have tea?" replies Malfoy, still looking at Luna in the tree.

"Beetroot tea alright?"

Malfoy's face jerks towards Harry, recoils and goes slightly green.

Harry laughs. "I'm just kidding, Malfoy."

"Thank Merlin," says Malfoy, relaxing, "You wouldn't believe how much of that stuff I've stomached."

He follows Harry into the kitchen as Harry pulls out his jar of teabags and says, "Believe me, I would."

How interesting, Harry thinks as he pops teabags into two mugs and pours boiling water over them. Luna's green beetroot tea is notoriously disgusting (if apparently healthy), but it's also her favourite - she doesn't serve it to people she doesn't like. And she doesn't let people she doesn't trust into her garden, either. Harry is finding this night full of bizarre revelations.

"What are those?" says Malfoy suddenly, pointing to the teabags in the jar.

"Teabags," says Harry.

"Tea… bags?"

"The tea is in the bag."

Malfoy frowns and picks one up, gingerly, to inspect it closer, "But… why?"

"Because they're muggle, and muggles can't just get tea leaves out with magic."

Malfoy looks suspiciously at the teabags.

"Is this going to be a problem, Malfoy?" says Harry.

"No," says Malfoy, although he doesn't look entirely sure. Harry feels oddly smug at Malfoy having to deal with muggle tea.

He motions to the cups. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Mil-" Malfoy begins, then stops. After a moment he says, "Actually, I'll have it black, if you promise not to make a passive-aggressive remark about it."

"Huh?"

Malfoy scrunches up his face in a way that resembles several ministry officials Harry doesn't like.

" _Oh, you like it black?_ " Malfoy mimics, " _Just like your magic, then?_ "

Harry snorts. "I wish I'd thought of that in Hogwarts," he says.

"I'm sure you do."

Harry is about to begin on the hundred and one questions he has about how on Earth Malfoy and Luna have ended up being friends - if they are that - but Luna suddenly appears back in the apartment, startling both of them.

"I think that's taken care of," she says, her bag of butterbeer corks visibly reduced.

"Tea?" says Harry.

"Oooh yes please," she says.

Out of only Merlin knows where, she produces a bag of ground green beetroots, and Harry is sure that Malfoy is as relieved as he that their tea is already brewed.


	3. Chapter 3

Ginny and Bryan hold their engagement party at a pub. _The_ pub, in fact, that they got into their worst fight in, the one which nearly got them both suspended by the president of the National Quidditch Association. They don't even try to go for a romantic or twee atmosphere: it's quite clear that for the celebrations of their eternal love, they just want to get completely trashed with their friends and family. And that's so beautiful it makes Harry want to shed a tear, although that's also because Harry is really, really, _really_ off his tits.

He downed an entire pint of firewhiskey about an hour ago on a dare (because good decisions have never been Harry's forte), and he's currently sat in his happy state of sloshed watching Ginny and Bryan try to out-drink each other. He's thinking about Malfoy again, because he's been thinking about Malfoy continuously for the last two days.

It's Sunday night, and the events of Friday night (nargle existence confirmed, Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood being friends - which of these two things is more bizarre, Harry wonders?) have proved impossible not to think about. Luna and Malfoy, needing to finish planting herbs, left too quick post Nargle-takedown for Harry to be able to ask any of the many, many questions he has. And boy does he have questions.

Despite the regret they displayed at the Wizengamot trials, Harry has always continued considering the Malfoys a bloody unpleasant family. Even after barely getting off Azkaban - which surely should have humbled anyone - they have remained resolutely proud and snobbish. Harry actually finds it borderline impressive.

He's made headway with Malfoy over the years with the smallest of small talk in the Lift Of Doom, but Harry certainly wouldn't describe him as _user-friendly_ or _nice_. Apparently he's tolerable to at least a fraction of his colleagues: Harry has heard high praise such as 'not as much of an asshole as I expected' and 'can be civil'. The few years of growing up since the war seem to have matured him out of most of his sneering bully persona, which frankly cannot be said of his wife or even parents. But you can't reluctantly co-operate yourself into planting herbs in Luna Lovegood's beloved yard, not if you're a Malfoy. They kept her locked in their basement, for Merlin's sake. Harry can't imagine even Luna letting Malfoy off for that.

More importantly, Harry can't really see Malfoy going to make amends. After all, Harry and Hermione - much to Ron's chagrin - did work to keep the Malfoys out of Azkaban, and they barely got a thank you for it. So how on Earth -

Somebody's hands slap down onto his shoulders, startling the living daylight out of Harry and making him knock over a beer with his elbow.

"Oops, sorry!" says Ginny. "How do you feel?"

"A little sick," Harry admits.

She sits down opposite him and gives him an evil little grin. "So," she says, "how's the love life?"

Her eyes dart in the direction of Rose Appleby, and Harry grimaces.

"I'm married to the job, as everyone keeps saying," says Harry, "although…"

"Although?" says Ginny, looking surprised, perhaps rightly so given that Harry has barely dated since his flurry of post-Ginny rebounds.

"Somebody is sending me flowers," says Harry, "To my house. I don't know who it is. I think it's to do with you."

Ginny cocks her head. "And you think it's romantic?"

"I don't know," says Harry, "it started on the day your engagement was announced in the papers. I guess I've always associated flowers with romance. I guess… I guess it's the realest gesture of love I've had since we broke up, romantic or not."

Ginny laughs, lightly, pleasantly. "I hope you find out who it is at some point," she says, then her voice drops to a whisper, "Rose is coming this way, I better leave you to it."

Harry wants to stop her from leaving but she's up on her feet. Instead he just nods when she whispers to him, "Keep me updated. About the flower-sender."

As she leaves, Rose twirls around Harry and plants herself in the chair Ginny was just in, biting her lip.

Rose Appleby - Bryan's ex and the closest thing the wizarding world has to a popstar - has clearly decided that she and Harry are going to be a thing. Harry's not sure if this is to get back at Bryan, or she likes the idea of the exes of the engaged couple getting together or - and Harry suspects this one most - they would make a 'divine power couple', as someone said earlier.

She's pretty. Very pretty. Possibly the prettiest girl Harry has ever seen: huge eyes and lips that appear both seductive and innocent at once. So when she takes Harry out into the beer garden, presses him against a tree and kisses him, Harry lets her. He puts his hands into her hair - her signature afro dyed turquoise - and lets himself go.

And then about two minutes in, it clicks. It's something he realised unconsciously about a year after he split up with Ginny, but that's never come to the forefront of his brain as a tangible concept until now. And it's a concept that his fifteen year old self would have been horrified at: kissing pretty girls has become really boring.

It was exciting as hell, of course, at first - Harry's a red-blooded male after all. He liked those girls, enjoyed his time with them, he even tried to properly date a couple of them (but his work is all too often all-consuming, or at least, Harry _thinks_ this is why all his brief relationships haven't worked out). But… They weren't Ginny. And that's bad not because he wants _Ginny_ , but because he wants what he and Ginny had: something ordinary. Something real.

All the girls who want Harry, they don't actually want _Harry_ , they want whichever Harry they've constructed in their head before meeting him. They want him to be broken, want to be the only one who can fix him, make him happy. They want his secrets, want to get into his head, want to be the only one who understands him. Want to support him in his obsessive crusade for truth and justice.

No matter how well they hide it, Harry can always see when the disappointment hits them. Because Harry, just Harry, is too damn fucking _dull_.

These girls who think they love him, they sit with Harry and watch as he listens to Hermione's extensive plans for freeing oppressed creatures. Watch him talk to Ron about who's winning the Quidditch for two hours at a time. They look confused as Harry says his day was "okay", as if anything less than him almost dying on the job is a workday wasted. And then it dawns on them that Harry's job is about as exciting as theirs most of the time, and that despite their expectations - and sometimes obsessions with him - Harry can't make them any more happy than the next damn bloke because he _isn't at all different to the next damn bloke_.

They don't make Harry all that happy, either. They used to excite him before the excitement of newness wore out, now they don't excite him at all.

So he breaks off his kiss with Rose, tells her he isn't feeling it (from her expression, nobody has ever said something like that to her before), and lets her stomp off. He rests against the tree and feels sick.

Really sick. Too sick. He's going to throw up, he realises. It's too packed in the pub to run to the toilets, but he also doesn't want to vomit in full view of everyone, so he runs to the dark alley way leading off the beer garden which lays between this pub and the pub next door, keels over and lets it all out.

"Oh that is _disgusting,_ " somebody says. Or sneers, by the sound of it.

It takes Harry a moment to process, but the voice actually sounds familiar. He gets his wand out and casts a lumos. The speaker obviously wasn't expecting that, so he's faced with the surprised and angry face of Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy Malfoy, Harry corrects himself.

She's got her hands wrapped around someone, and their hand is on her bum. Oh, gross, Harry thinks, he's just walked in on Pansy and Malfoy snogging in a dark alleyway. Then he moves his wand towards Malfoy, and realises that's not Malfoy at all.

Harry stares for a moment, then casts nox and throws up again. By the time he's finished vomiting, Pansy and Not-Malfoy have gone. A shiver goes down Harry's spine, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to go home.

When he makes his way back inside the pub, head spinning, Ginny insists that friends don't let friends apparate drunk, so Harry is made to floo near his flat and then walk.

"Is this about Rose?" she whispers to him as he's putting on his coat.

"No," he answers. "I just feel very queasy, and I have work tomorrow afternoon so I better go sleep it off."

It's not exactly untrue, and 'Malfoy's wife is unfaithful and this makes me oddly uncomfortable' is hardly a suitable topic at Ginny's engagement party.

After twenty minutes of walking, Harry gets home. His head feels a little clearer but he's also exhausted - so exhausted he just collapses on the sofa in his jacket and shoes. He looks at the flowers on his coffee table - the newest of the bunch, arriving that afternoon: roses. Pansy and Malfoy had roses at their wedding - Harry saw the pictures. He thinks about Pansy. She still had her wedding band on, back there in that alley, the diamonds glittering in Harry's lumos.

Merlin, Harry realises with a startle, what he feels for Malfoy is _pity._ Harry might not be able to find the right person, but he'd always thought Pansy and Malfoy thoroughly deserved each other. Sure, Malfoy deserves a lot of the shit he gets - he's done some awful stuff - but not even Malfoy deserves the awfulness of the person you love most being unfaithful to you.

Harry lets out an annoyed sigh. Great, now not only has he got to worry about his own love life, but also Malfoy's.

It begins to rain outside, and Harry falls asleep.

* * *

Harry technically only starts work on Monday afternoon, but he's awake and sober at his usual wake-up time on Monday morning. And before he knows what he's doing, he gets dressed and leaves the house with enough time to make his usual elevator with Malfoy.

"Malfoy," he says when Malfoy arrives.

"Potter," Malfoy replies, "you're early today."

"Er, yes," says Harry, "I actually wanted to talk to you about something."

The elevator doors open and they get in.

"Yes, I know," says Malfoy.

"You do?" Harry says, his heart beating at a hundred miles per hour. He fights to keep his breath steady.

"We didn't properly talk about my aunt on Friday, and it would be just like you to actually give a fuck about her," says Malfoy, "But don't worry, I'm going to go visit her. I'm sure one of my parents would do it, but I've opted to not tell them about it."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "No?"

Malfoy sighs. "It would involve explaining why I was there. And we don't say your name in our house anymore. Something about being in a collective that tried to murder you a few years ago."

There's a silence for a moment, where Malfoy crosses his hands across his body, tight and tense.

Something comes over Harry. "Let me come with you," he says. Malfoy looks at him, confused, and Harry adds, "to your aunt's. She's been my neighbour for years. It's only polite."

Malfoy looks unconvinced. "She might hex you when she finds out who you are."

Harry shrugs. He's an auror after all.

"Gryffindor stupidity never dies," mutters Malfoy under his breath as the elevator opens on Harry's floor.

"When?" says Harry, half way out of the doors.

Malfoy thinks or a moment.

"I can do Wednesday night," he says. "I'll come get you from your flat, shall I? You might get lost on the way there otherwise."

Harry rolls his eyes and walks away.

But all for the rest of the morning, guilt gnaws at Harry until he's so distracted that he just sits and stares at his office wall, thinking about Pansy and Malfoy. He wants to tell him - was intending to, back there in the lift - but… _It would be just like you to actually give a fuck._ There had been some bite in those words, a sharp reminder of how much Malfoy resented Harry, probably resents him still. It occurs to him that he's probably the _last_ person Malfoy would ever want to hear something like this from. He thinks about Luna for a second, but dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes.

He still hasn't asked either Luna or Malfoy how they became friends, either. When his lunch hour comes, he owls Luna asking if she's free this evening and if he can come around. And after he finishes work, he apparates straight to Luna's.

"I suppose you want to want to know how Draco and I became friends," she says once they're settled down inside with tea.

Harry nods.

"It was actually an accident," she says cheerily, "I was trying to make a Whexer's potion."

"Merlin's pants," says Harry, "why?"

"Whexer's is good for the turnips," says Luna seriously.

Harry makes a face. Whexer's was used for cases of severe diarrhoea in the days before modern potions.

"Well I needed Pale Tree cuttings to brew it," Luna goes on, "but it's so difficult to find these days. I met this nice woman in Diagon Alley who let me buy the last of hers though."

Harry groans, "Did she have three eyes and call herself Beatrice by any chance?" he says.

"Yes that's right," says Luna serenely, "I think she got a little mixed up though as it turns out they were actually Groad root cuttings. Awfully easy to confuse the two."

Harry bites his tongue and doesn't tell Luna about three-eyed Beatrice's reputation.

"So where does Malfoy come into this?" he says.

"Well I made the potion," she says, "but because I was using the Groad roots, I made something else entirely. I'm not sure what, but it wasn't a nice potion. Draco's department are able to detect when some of these potions are made, so they sent him round. To confiscate it, you know? It's lucky he came before I put it on my turnips.

"I think his boss sent him because she knew how uncomfortable it would make him. She doesn't like him, see. But he was awfully nice about it. He didn't even put it on record because he said it was clearly an accident. I was quite sad about the Whexer's though, because it really helps the turnips. He said he still had some Pale Log cuttings in the Manor, and offered to bring me some."

Harry's gawking, Luna smiles at him.

"It surprised me too," she says, "I think he felt bad about the war. And you know, the whole basement thing. He helped me brew the potion. Although I'm not sure if that was him being nice or because I was brewing it dad's old way and he thought it would explode. It wouldn't look good if a potion with ingredients he gave me exploded, see. He brewed a couple of other things for me, too, and then I suppose we realised neither of us was as bad as we'd thought. That was a couple of years ago."

"And now you're friends?" says Harry.

"I think so, yes. He's taken me to the Manor. We even played exploding snap in the basement! It really helped the nightmares - the Manor isn't so bad now _he_ " - Luna shudders at the thought of Voldemort- "isn't in it. And Mrs Malfoy is very nice when you get to know her."

 _"Parkinson?"_

"No, she wasn't very kind about it," says Luna, "I meant Draco's mother."

"Right," says Harry, wrapping his brain around it all, "right."

"Is there anything else you wanted to ask?" says Luna.

Harry wonders for a second whether to tell Luna about Pansy.

"No," he says.

So then they drink tea and talk about things that have nothing to do with love or infidelity or the trauma of a broken heart.

When Harry gets home, his head hurts. He sits at his kitchen table rubbing his temples. It's the thought of Malfoy, with his faithless wife and charred existence. Malfoy, who played exploding snap in his basement with Luna Lovegood to help her get over her nightmares. Harry feels he's been punched into an alternate reality: he's finding it difficult as hell to conflate this new Malfoy with the Malfoy Harry used to know, the one who was so vile. But he knows one thing: he's going to tell him about Pansy tomorrow.

There's an enormous smash as Harry's kitchen window breaks, the rock that flies through it missing Harry's head by millimetres. Then something else flies in through the window. It's a line of butterbeer caps on a string. Outside the window there's a snarling little face sticking its tongue out at him.

* * *

"The nargles are back," says Harry to Malfoy in the lift the next day. "In full force. They broke a window last night - with a rock."

Malfoy frowns. "And it was definitely nargles, not some muggles or something? I've heard stories…"

Harry resists the urge to punch him. "Not unless muggles are an inch tall, have purple skin and a face like Peeves," he says.

Malfoy appears to be in thought for a moment. "I think I know an expert who might be able to have a look at it. I'll owl them about it."

Harry tries to hide his surprise. This may be the first example of Malfoy voluntarily doing something nice for Harry.

"Thanks," he says, and then: "Listen…"

Just then the elevator pings, having stopped at Malfoy's floor. Harry swears in his head. Of all days, why today to be fast and efficent? Malfoy nods at Harry and gets out, and before Harry knows what he's doing, he runs after him.

"I need to tell you something," he says.

Malfoy looks alarmed and Harry swallows. Then, double checking there's nobody in the corridor, Harry tells him what he saw on Sunday.

"I'm really sorry Malfoy," he says, "she's - you know."

Malfoy looks nonchalant. "I know," he says.  
"You _know_?" says Harry.  
"It's common in pureblood marriages. We marry for status and connection, not bedroom relations."  
"But," Harry says, "Don't you love her?"

Malfoy shrugs. "She's nice enough," he says.

Harry winces. "I mean - wouldn't you rather be married to somebody you're really in love with?" he says before he can stop himself, "And who's _faithful_ to you?"

"Yes," says Malfoy slowly, in a tone one would use talking to a small child, "but it turns out nobody wants to date you when you've got the Dark Mark blazoned onto your arm, and the threat of Azkaban hanging over you if you're so much as suspected of associating with dark magic."  
Harry stares at him. Malfoy rolls his eyes.  
"I have work to do, Potter," he said. "Good day."

And with that, he walks away.

* * *

On Wednesday, when Harry gets home, there's bunch of Alstroemerias of all different colours on his doorstep, which reminds him of the other mystery in his life.

He takes them inside, sits and looks at them. He actually knows the name of these, because they were Aunt Petunia's favourites. Of course, this means Harry has always hated them with a passion - old woman plants, he used to call them in his head. Suddenly, he sits up with a jolt. _Old woman plants._

He couldn't think of a single friend with his address who would send these. But who else knows where he lives? All the old women in this apartment block. Sending flowers to an apparently lonely and heartbroken young man does seem like an awfully old-woman-esque thing to do, thinks Harry, especially if one of them is secretly a witch or squib who knows who he actually is. And he can't believe it, but the prime suspect is the crazy old woman across the hallway, recently revealed a Malfoy. Harry thinks his life will never be sane.

"I think your aunt is sending me flowers," he blurts the moment Malfoy is through the door.

Malfoy stops and looks affronted. "Why do you think _that_?"

Harry explains about the flowers, and Malfoy laughs unkindly, which makes Harry colour and regret telling him at all.

"With all due respect, Potter," he says, clearly not intending any respect at all, "I don't think she has any idea who you are."

He explains his "Aunts" Myrtle and Genie disappeared when they turned of age, and were assumed by the family to be living as hermits somewhere. They would, on occasion, randomly turn up to family gatherings and Christmas parties uninvited and unannounced, but clearly quite out of touch with all matters magical.

Harry wonders if perhaps there's another old woman in the building who could be suspect. Malfoy clears his throat.

"I talked to my contact about your… Nargle problem," he says. "He says he'd be happy to come to take a look at it at your earliest convenience. Seemed rather keen, actually."

"That's good," says Harry, "who is it?"

"A magizoologist. Rolf Scamander."

Harry looks at Malfoy. His face is expressionless, unreadable. Does he know, Harry wonders? Is it possible Luna has actually told _Malfoy_ about this?

"How do you know him?" Harry asks.

"You're not going to like this Potter," says Malfoy, "but a lot of purebloods know each other from birth."

"Right," says Harry. And then: "Luna should be there too."

Malfoy nods, slowly, his eyes flickering over Harry's face. Malfoy's trying to read him, Harry realises, just as Harry is trying to read him. Malfoy _knows._ Malfoy knows and is trying to set Luna up with the man she loves.

Something tinges in Harry's chest. He's not sure if it's hope for Luna or gratefulness - affection even - for Malfoy. Harry swallows.

"We should get going," says Malfoy.

"Yeah," says Harry.

As they make their way out of the apartment, as they wait for Myrtle to open the door, as they're let inside and Malfoy conducts a ten minute reassuring session of We Come In Peace and We Have Nothing To Do With The Fucking Magpies, Harry can't stop watching Malfoy. Has he really graduated from douchebag of the century to someone Luna - sweet, dear Luna - can trust? Has he always secretly cared about people outside his pureblood regime, or has the personality of a decent human being been transplanted into him more recently?

The conversation with Mad Aunt Myrtle does not go well. They just about manage to find out - after much asking and re-asking, clarifying and such - that Myrtle actually created floor two and a half with her cousin Genie. But they were arguing at the time so it didn't exactly go to plan - it wasn't invisible as intended, and all the neighbours knew they were there. Then a few years back, Genie, as Myrtle puts it "had to go and die, so I had to put up with _this_ -" she says, pointing an accusing finger at Harry.

Malfoy, in a further act of decency Harry didn't know he had in him, tries to find out if Myrtle actually knows who Harry is. 'This is Harry Potter' doesn't seem to ring any bells.

"He killed Voldemort," Malfoy says.

"I did not _kill_ anyone - " says Harry.

"Who?" says Myrtle.

"Tom Riddle," Malfoy says, "he -"

Myrtle's face suddenly lights up, and she smiles - the first time Harry has ever seen her smile.

"Oh, Tom Riddle!" she says, "I really rather liked that boy. So delightful. How is he doing these days?"

Harry and Draco exchange glances.

"He's dead," says Malfoy.

"Oh no," says Myrtle, "how long?"

"Just a few years back…"

"Oh that's so terrible," says Myrtle, "I really thought he'd manage to live forever, like he always said. Know him well, did you, either of you?"

At their perplexed looks, she widens her eyes and says, _"Well?"_

As Malfoy groans, Harry realises it's going to be a long, long night.


End file.
